


Rain of Memories

by Crowsnight66



Series: Translations [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: English translation, M/M, Original by Cydalima
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 11:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowsnight66/pseuds/Crowsnight66
Summary: Outside, rain falls, and France remembers an event from his childhood with England.





	Rain of Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Lluvia de recuerdos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497967) by [Cydalima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cydalima/pseuds/Cydalima). 



> Note: This story is NOT MINE! This amazing, fantastic, wonderful fanfiction was written by Cydalima, who has given me permission to translate her story “Lluvia de Recuerdos” into English. If you want to check out the original Spanish, here’s the link:   
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1497967

“Do you remember when we were children?”

England raises his gaze from his book and puts it on France, who he finds to be beside the window, watching the rain fall.

“Don’t make yourself melancholic,” he responds. “It’s enough that you’re here this afternoon, let alone put up with your moments of nostalgia.”

France smiles without lowering his gaze from the rain and says nothing more. England returns his gaze to his reading, losing himself again in a story of magic and fantasy that occasionally makes him smile. Through the corner of his eye, he manages to see the other moving through the room and ignores him. Just because France has stayed in his house, that doesn’t mean he wants to talk to him or is obligated to initiate a conversation. So he continues reading in peace.

A few minutes pass. The rain, instead of stopping, worsens; rattling inside the windows of the study with force, getting used to hearing it through the calm inside. It’s a relaxing sound, almost hypnotic. It’s the best music to accompany a good book, England thinks as he turns the page.

“It’s not melancholy,” France says, his voice sounding much closer than before. England lifts his gaze and finds his companion seated in the sofa opposite to his, legs crossed. France has his elbow supported by the arm of the furniture and his head tilted while he reads the title of England’s book, written on the spine.

England raises an eyebrow and looks at him intently, nonverbally asking if he really thinks England believes in his words. France laughs animatedly.

“The rain reminded me of when we were children,” he explains.

“Please, tell me that you don’t think of that every time it rains,” England responds, looking at him with a mixture of mockery and suspicion.

“Of course not,” France assures the other and rolls his eyes.

“Good, otherwise it would be very perturbing.”

France snorts and settles in his seat. England closes his book and places it on the small table beside the sofa. With the other so interested in chatting with him, it’s obvious that his calm moment of reading has ended. Hopefully the rain will stop soon, he thinks, throwing a longing glance at the book. If the ‘country of love’ could leave, then he could finish, at least, the chapter he was reading. Or the whole book; yes, the whole book would be good.

“On one occasion, we found ourselves in a house in the middle of the forest while we waited for the rain to stop.”

England looks at him, trying to find some hidden intention written on France’s face, and is taken aback to find nothing more than longing and a kind smile. He clears his throat, because that’s not the face that France should have when he’s in front of England ( _should_ , yes, because if he does so, England is kicked out of his comfort zone and doesn’t know how to act.)

“I remember it,” England finally says. France nods and the two fall silent again.

It’s a rainy afternoon. France runs and throws a gesture at a little England who complains because he can’t run as quickly as the other. Their feet splash water every time that they run through a puddle; their clothes are not only soaked but covered in mud. The jump over a fallen tree trunk, England slips and falls face-first on the ground, and France stops and helps him to his feet, looking him over to make sure he hadn’t hurt himself. France decides that he’s in perfect condition (even though it really hurts) and without saying a word, drags him again until they manage to find a stone house. They open the door and enter, closing it behind them with some trouble. Both are soaked, the water running cold over their bodies, even though the inside of the place feels warm, thanks to a fire that crackles in the chimney.

France takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down after the race; he laughs at the sight of England completely soaked, even though he knows that he’s not much better. The smaller looks at him reproachfully, turning his back and looking around him. It’s a small house; there’s a bed near the chimney and a wooden table on the other side. There’s a chair that has a few animal skins on it. They’re in someone else’s house, and even though he’s thankful to have a roof and a warm place, it’s very likely that its owner will appear soon and kick them out into the forest again without consideration. England turns around and looks at France, who in that moment is already taking off his clothes, which fall to the floor with a muffled sound.

“W-what are you doing?!” asks little England, watching the other in horror. France stops and looks at him, confused.

“If we stay wet, we’ll only manage to freeze ourselves to the bones,” he responds naturally. “Come on, take off your clothes, too,” he adds, finishing undressing.

“The owner of this house might return soon,” England complains, turning his face away to avoid looking at the other’s nudity.

“It doesn’t matter if he comes back.”

“Of course it does!” he exclaims and turns, only to turn around again, red, when he sees France. “We are in a house of someone we don’t know; we shouldn’t stay here much longer.”

He lets out a cry of surprise when he feels the other behind him, trying to take off his clothes. He grips the clothes that cover him tightly, even when the weight and coldness of them make his bones hurt, clinging to them as if his life depended on it.

“It doesn’t matter if the owner of this house returns,” the older boy repeats, pulling the clothing off the smaller, though England still resists, “because he’s a friend of mine.”

“Huh?”

France manages to remove the outer garment from England, who still resists but not like before, and now watches the other blonde curiously. His friend? Then, if the owner is his friend, it won’t be too bad to stay in the house for a little while, right? At least while they dry off and until the rain eases a bit. Maybe this friend could also give them something to eat because England is starting to feel hungry. Outside, the water continues to fall with a loud racket, raining as it hasn’t in a long time.

England relaxes a bit, and France uses it to his advantage and strips England of his clothing. Afterwards, they move closer to the fire in the chimney. The smaller blushes because he’s not accustomed to others seeing him naked and something tells him that France is, judging by how he ambles about the small house without any shame. Or maybe it’s simply that he doesn’t know what shame is. England sits on the floor and hugs himself while he watches the fire in the chimney and finds comfort in its pleasant warmth.

Suddenly, he feels something on his shoulders and turns to find France smiling at him: he’s put a blanket over England’s body. England says nothing; stubborn as he is, he cuddles up in it and returns his gaze to the fire, which dances before his eyes, throwing sparks so hypnotic that they make him forget where and with whom he finds himself. France pulls up the blanket and England jumps when the other squeezes under it, too.

“What are you doing?” England asks without moving his gaze to the other kid.

“There’s only one blanket,” the other excuses himself, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’m sure there are others. Find your own.”

“If that’s the case, I think that’s what I should be saying to you, don’t you think?”

England remains silent, furrowing his brow and pouting as he returns his gaze to the fire. He almost sees the other’s smile and that annoys him, but decides to say nothing, so he stays mute. France moves closer to him, and England shivers a bit at feeling the other’s body next to his, touching. France is cold, and he must really be frozen if England feels that he’s colder than the younger himself.

England watches him out of the corner of his eye and discovers him with a small smile on his face, also observing the flames. _What could be making him so happy?_ England asks himself, continuing to watch him discretely. France is truly crazy, most definitely.

“If you want me to hold you, you only have to say it,” France murmurs, watching him now. England blushes and covers himself further with the blanket, trying to hide his face.

“I don’t want you to hold me.”

“I think you do,” the older teases.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“It’s written on your face.”

“No!”

“Alright, then no.”

“I told you that…! Ah?”

France laughs enthusiastically and lets himself fall to the floor, dragging the blanket with him and with it, England. The smaller falls over him and lets out a yelp, scrambling away immediately and finding the blanket to cover himself again. France makes himself comfortable on the floor (his elbow on the ground, his head resting on his hand, his side propped on the floor, and his leg bent in an almost obscene manner, the lower part of his body barely covered by the blanket) and watches little England attentively.

“You’re skinnier than how your clothes make you look,” he says.

“I’m healthy enough, if that’s what you’re trying to insinuate,” the other responds defensively.

“I wasn’t insinuating anything.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s true,” France insists. He propels himself up with his hands and soon is on his feet again, in front of the other. “I also look much skinnier without clothes, see?”

England averts his gaze, but France follows in front of him and there’s no other option than to look. His eyes look over France’s body, noting that yes, he does look less stocky without clothing, even though it’s not like the clothes ever made him look very strong. He has goose bumps despite being in front of the chimney, and England wishes that the other boy would sit down again and cover himself because he feels colder from just looking at him.

France smiles and returns to sitting (almost like listening to the other’s thoughts), covering himself newly with the blanket. England feels his cold body once again and scoots closer to him, to his surprise. Without looking at him, of course, and France takes that as an invitation to move their bodies much closer than before. England’s body feels small and warm, and it comforts him.

“My hair will be a disaster when it dries,” France murmurs while he takes a lock between his fingers. England smiles to himself.

“That’ll be fun to see.”

France looks him up and down and then shrugs his shoulders.

“Yours will be as always, so there won’t be much to see,” France comments. “You’ll wear it like some sort of wild beast that’s been attached to your head.”

England looks at him with annoyance before he turns his back. France laughs under his breath. A few minutes pass and no one says anything. Between the two of them, they settle into a pleasant silence that few times occurs between France and England. Even though there’s something to talk about, the stupor that the fire and its heat create makes any other topic of conversation irrelevant.

“It would be nice to have something hot to drink,” France murmurs after a while, without looking at the smaller boy.

“When your friend arrives, maybe you could ask for something,” England responds in a sleepy voice. He yawns.

“Yes, maybe,” France agrees. There’s a few seconds of silence. “And if you give me a hug?” adds the older, throwing himself over the other and knocking him to the floor again.

England shrieks and kicks.

“Get away from me!”

“And that was the first time that our naked bodies were under the same blanket,” the adult France hums, settling himself on the sofa. England gives him a sour look.

“You say that as if there’ve been many times since then,” he responds.

“And there hasn’t?”

England ignores the question.

“Does it bother you if I smoke?” France asks, motioning to his box of cigarettes, and England shakes his head. The other takes a cigarette and raises it to his mouth. Soon the odor of it floods the room while the long-haired blonde takes a few drags of tobacco.

“And in the end, we didn’t get a hot drink,” England adds suddenly, remembering the rest of the story.

France laughs animatedly and makes himself comfortable in his seat: back straight, legs crossed, cigarette in his right hand. He also remembers that. The owner of the house returned and after finding them asleep in front of his chimney, let out a scream that woke them. Even though they were only children, he asked what they were doing in his house and accused them of being thieves. The excuses weren’t important, France barely had time to drag England away from the little house, their clothes in one hand and the smaller boy in the other.

At least it wasn’t raining when they left there, because to set out on an escape, naked as they were, was already sufficiently awkward.

England kept the blanket; with it, they covered themselves under the roots of a tree and under it, they returned to sleep until the next day, squeezed against each other.

“It’s a shame that my friend kicked us out of his house,” France replies without smiling. England rolls his eyes.

“Yes, of course. Your ‘friend’. We were lucky that that man didn’t throw us out of his house at sword-point. ‘It doesn’t matter if the owner of this house returns because he’s a friend of mine’,” he quotes. “I still ask myself why I trusted what you said.”

“Because, inevitably, you always end up trusting in me.”

England doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t deny it either. He stands from his seat and moves closer to the window while he watches the rain fall. The yard isn’t a forest, but its green color reminds him of the scenery of that time. He smiles slightly, sure that France can’t see it. The rain falls and falls, beating against the windows, every time with less force; for a while he doesn’t listen to any thunder. He returns his gaze to the room. The other man still smokes his cigarette and remains with his legs crossed.

“Do you fancy a whiskey?” England asks, turning to look at him.

“A double would be nice,” France responds, and England nods.

That is, perhaps, the hot drink that matches the occasion.

“Will you cuddle naked with me under a blanket?” France adds at accepting the glass the other extends to him.

“We would have to get naked for that to be possible,” England replies without being perturbed, accustomed to his companion’s games. “And believe me, that’s not something that’s going to happen.”

“It’s easy to arrange.”

England takes a sip of his drink and doesn’t accept (but he doesn’t refuse either) the other’s invitation.


End file.
